


Target Practice

by fiftysevenacademics (rapiddescent)



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Canon Bisexual Character, Canon Gay Character, Flirting, Gay Male Character, Guns, M/M, Occult, Shooting Guns, Shooting Range, Victorian, Victorian Attitudes, Werewolves, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 16:57:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3944470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rapiddescent/pseuds/fiftysevenacademics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ferdinand Lyle doesn't remember much about what happened in Evelyn Poole's mansion the morning after "Verbis Diablo". He only knows he needs to learn to defend himself, and reaches out to Ethan Chandler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Target Practice

Ferdinand Lyle had no clear memory of getting home from the dark mansion. The dim image of haunting young women staring down at him triggered a vague claustrophobia, and a female voice like ice on steel still rang in his ears, but what it said remained indistinct. He remembered hunting for Verbis Diablo artifacts in the British Museum with Ethan Chandler, and then there was a gap of time consisting only of hazy images, feelings, sounds that he had blocked out. Or, that had been blocked by witchcraft.

He awoke in his own bed, filled with dread, possessed of an urgent need to sort his photographs and, perhaps, contact a certain gentleman he knew long ago with a request to do the same. He wrapped his dressing gown tightly about his torso, stepped into his satin slippers, and padded over to his desk near the window, the slippers’ tassels ticking with each step like the clockwork of his own mortality. 

The maid arrived with tea as he was rifling through the drawers for… he wasn’t sure any more, and knew only that he must do something to protect himself, though from what, he could not say. He sat on the velvet seat, swirling cream and sugar around in the tea with a spoon, letting his eyes wander to a crow in the tree outside, then a dog eating something ugly in the gutter. Repulsed, his gaze returned to his desk, where it fell on his stationery and pen. 

“That’s it! I will ask Mr. Chandler to teach me to shoot.” The nib of the pen scratched the paper briefly, then he sealed it in an envelope, addressed in a flowing, flowery hand, and rang for the maid to put it in the morning post. 

Ethan arrived at the shooting range promptly at 2:00 PM, as they had agreed. Ferdinand was already stamping his feet and blowing into his hands for warmth because eagerness tormented him, and he had arrived far too early. He shoved them into his coat pockets when he saw Ethan emerge through a dusting of snow, and tried to look nonchalant as his tall, shaggy frame swaggered onto the shooting range. He wore a long, drab coat unbuttoned over a plaid vest and gray flannel trousers, and walked with the generous stride of a man accustomed to moving through wide, open spaces. The mental image of him stalking a bear in some god-forsaken patch of the American wilderness tickled Ferdinand, and he began to lose his composure as the man himself approached. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Lyle,” he said with his bowler tipped and a twinkle in his eye. 

“Oh—“ Ferdinand choked on a restrained giggle. “Mr. Chandler, it is a pleasure to see you again so soon!” 

“Likewise, Mr. Lyle.” His moustache curved in a slight smile. 

“Thank you for agreeing to teach me. This Verbis Diablo business has me feeling a bit… _exposed_ , and in need of protection.” 

“I can teach you to shoot, Mr. Lyle, but I can’t teach you anything about exposure,” Ethan winked. 

Ferdinand’s florid face turned crimson, forcing him to look away. 

“You have a way with words,” he tittered. 

Ethan grinned and directed Ferdinand toward the shooting stalls with one hand on his back. 

“Let’s get started.” 

He pulled a worn Colt Single Action Army revolver from the holster resting against his thigh and pointed out its parts. He half-cocked the hammer, tapped out the bullets, and reinserted them into the chambers, explaining how to load the weapon while Ferdinand nodded his head. When he finished, he set the hammer in the safety notch and invited Ferdinand to stand in front of him. A jagged heat tore through Ferdinand. His head felt light as the image of him accidentally shooting Ethan swam behind his eyes. 

“Don’t be afraid, Mr. Lyle. You can do this,” Ethan reassured as he positioned Ferdinand in front of him. 

“Now, hold it like this… No, no, don’t get into the habit of holding it with two hands… and look at the target.” Ferdinand was so nervous that Ethan had to lift his arm and hold it out straight for him. He was too conscious of the gentleness with which Ethan’s strong hands held his forearm to fix his attention on the target. He felt the ends of Ethan’s hair mingling with his own straw-colored curls as he bent over him to see the target from his perspective. His chest pressed gently against Ferdinand’s back with each inhalation. 

“Cock the hammer.” 

Ferdinand’s head spun to the right with a shocked expression.

“Oh, you Americans! Really!” 

“Just stroke backwards with your thumb. I’m sure you’re very good at that,” Ethan laughed half-heartedly. “Now that you’ve got it cocked, line the target up with the front sight… Yes, it’s that little flange at the tip of the barrel.“ 

Ferdinand squinted down the length of the gun at the target, holding his breath. Ethan’s beard brushing his cheek impaired his concentration. 

“Put your finger on the trigger and squeeze it gently.” 

Ferdinand felt his finger moving and instinctively closed his eyes with a little cringe as the gun recoiled in his hand with a bang. They heard angry noises coming from other stalls, and when Ferdinand opened his eyes, he saw a man in the stall next to them glaring at him. 

“You’re lucky you didn’t kill someone,” Ethan scolded. “I said squeeze it, don’t jerk it.” 

Ferdinand’s face burned, more at the thoughts that this last comment inspired than with shame at his poor marksmanship. Ethan guided him through the sequence again. This time, Ferdinand kept his eyes open and slid the trigger smoothly back with his forefinger. Even though the bullet did not hit the target, Ethan put an arm around him and smiled. 

“Much better! I do think you’re a natural, Mr. Lyle.” 

“You flatter me, sir,” he gushed. “As much as I enjoy the attention, I fear I lack all talent for this, and will require practice to become so much as mediocre.” 

Ethan laughed openly and stood aside. Ferdinand missed the nearness of his body instantly. 

“Try it on your own now.” 

“I couldn’t possibly. I feel so much safer with you right behind me.” 

“Safer? I thought you were going to use another word,” Ethan insinuated. Ferdinand’s jaw fell and he gaped at Ethan as if he might float away. Ethan chuckled again. “Go on. Give it a try on your own.“ 

Ferdinand turned apprehensively to face the target and, acutely aware of Ethan watching, approximated the stance as best he could. He lined up the target, took a deep breath, and caressed the trigger, keeping his eyes fixed upon the target. He felt as if he moved slowly, with heavy limbs and leaden fingers. His senses converged along the sight line of the revolver’s barrel, and flew with the bullet toward the target. BAM! 

At that moment, the icy female voice spoke the words, "photographs” and “indiscretions” in his ear, and her sneering face lit up in his mind. Evelyn Poole! The events of last night came roaring back on the sound of the gun firing. He caught a whiff of gunpowder as he stared blindly at the target. Ethan patted him on the back as he lowered the revolver, but it felt very far away, or maybe, even, on someone else’s body. 

“You did it!” Ethan ran across the range and tore the sheet of paper from the frame. “You hit the target!”

The hole fell wide of the outermost red circle by an inch or two, but Ferdinand had clearly achieved a hit of the paper.

“Well done, Mr. Lyle! I told you you were a natural. Try it again." 

Ethan regarded it as a victory, so Ferdinand laughed, too, and affected joy. 

"Thank you for your instruction, Mr. Chandler, but I feel this has been enough for one day. My heart can’t take so much excitement and I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you by swooning.”

Ethan responded bashfully to this reference to his comment from the night before. 

“Very well. Perhaps another time, then." 

"Um, no, Mr. Chandler, I don’t think that would be a good idea." 

"But you’re just getting the hang of it." 

"I think maybe we shouldn’t have done this in the first place. I’m not sure shooting will protect me from what I’m up against, after all.” He longed to tell Ethan everything about Evelyn Poole, the strange women, and what she was making him do to hurt them. “Can I get you a cab home?" 

They sat opposite each other in the cramped black cab, listening to the clop clop clop of hooves on cobblestones and the frequent commands and curses of the driver to the horses. Ethan’s knees bulged across the small space between the seats and touched Ferdinand’s. He looked at Ethan urgently, begging him to read his eyes, the arch of his brows, the fine layer of sweat on his forehead, but Ethan seemed not to notice.

"You know, Mr. Chandler, I am not what I seem.”

“Neither am I, Mr. Lyle. In my experience, most people are not what they seem." 

Ferdinand lowered his head and picked at a loose thread in the upholstery. 

"No, I mean, I am dangerous. I am a beast, with beastly appetites." 

Ethan’s hand came down on his knee. He looked Ferdinand directly in the eyes. 

"And who does not have beastly appetites?" 

Ferdinand’s response was consumed by the sensation of Ethan’s fingers on his knee, by the warmth of his hand and the distinctness of each finger on his flesh. 

"My appetites are more beastly than you could ever imagine. _I am_ more beastly than you could ever imagine,” Ethan whispered.

His hand rested on Ferdinand’s knee the entire time they rode, in silence, to Sir Malcolm’s house, where Ethan directed the driver to stop. 

He replaced his hat on his head and stooped into the door, saying, as he stepped out, “The only beasts are those who know not that they are beasts. The rest of us are halfway between heaven and hell.”


End file.
